


layer cake

by zenstrike



Series: you’re lucky that’s what i like [31]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Lovey-Dovey, M/M, self-indulgent romantic garbage, soft, soooooooft, soooooooooooooooooooooooooooft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 06:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenstrike/pseuds/zenstrike
Summary: Keith and Lance, on the couch with a bottle of wine.





	layer cake

**Author's Note:**

> i will proofread this tomorrow but i want to spread the softness

    At the beginning of the bottle, they sat on opposite ends of the couch.

    Their battered, ragged, profoundly comfortable couch. The couch they sometimes fell asleep on, tangled together, or where they sometimes found Hunk curled up with the blankets and his tablet. It was just long enough that, when Keith uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass, Lance stretched out his legs and wiggled his toes against the side of Keith’s thigh and Keith could turn his head and get a perfect view of Lance’s grin and that dance of starlight in his eyes that Keith loved so much.

    “Look at us,” Lance said. “Grown ups.”

    Keith pointed at the dark bottle with its bright white label, sitting innocently on what passed for a coffee table in their crowded, wonderful home. “Oh yeah? We didn’t just buy that wine because there’s a cake on the label?”

    “Grown ups like cake,” Lance sniffed, and wiggled his toes.

    Keith smiled at him and touched his fingers to Lance’s ankle, and he watched Lance click his teeth against the side of his glass and he thought—he thought he could see this, for them, forever. For all of their days and for all of their couches.

    He said this, after their first glasses were done and they had forgotten to keep watching the movie.

    Or something like it.

    He wasn’t quite drunk, or even tipsy, but the wine was hitting harder than he’d thought it would and Lance—well, Lance was intoxicating at the best of times, wasn’t he? Or was that a misrepresentation.

    A lie.

    Keith’d never find the words to tell Lance what he was to him. He knew it. He accepted it. He mourned it.

    He said: “I want to do this with you forever.” And then he shook his head and he tapped his fingers against his glass and he amended: “We’re going to do this forever, you and me. A million bottles of wine and a million movies and more kisses than you can count.”

    And Lance titled his head and then leaned over the edge of the couch to snatch up the bottle of wine and he shuffled just a little bit closer, his toes still wiggling and so strangely tantalizing in their Lance-ness, in how familiar they seemed, and his ankles looked impressive and sturdy and Keith could imagine pressing his lips to the point where his ankles became his foot and he thought he could hear Lance’s flustered laughter.

    Lance filled his glass.

    “Yeah?” he said.

    Keith, for a moment, wasn’t sure what they were talking about and then he smiled and said: “Yeah.”

    “I can count pretty high.”

    “You’re pretty amazing.”

    “You’re drunk.”

    “I am not,” Keith huffed. “But I will be.”

    Nothing made Lance seem more kissable than the way he smiled, and he smiled wonderfully and poured himself some more wine and Keith resisted making good on his oath of countless kisses and he resisted tasting the very edge of Lance’s skin and they kept watching the movie.

    They didn’t get much further.

    What was a movie—what was the sky—when Lance was right there? When Keith could feel the wine warming his blood and the sound of Lance’s breath reverberating in his heart? It was nothing. It was nothing, too, to scoot closer, to pull Lance’s legs over his lap and catch Lance when he leaned—or crashed—closer.

    “Watch the movie,” Lance mumbled after Keith kissed him, soft and quick.

    “‘kay,” Keith muttered, and Lance rolled his eyes like he knew Keith (and he did, he did, he did).

    And suddenly there was barely anything left in the bottle. The cake on the label mocked them with its sobriety. The room spun. The movie roared.

    “I want to kiss you,” Keith said, or he thought he said but he knew that was Lance’s voice and those were Lance’s fingers at his cheek, at the side of his neck.

    “Did you say that?” Keith said, and he knew it was his voice this time.

    Lance laughed, vibrant and gorgeous and echoing against Keith’s teeth. “You’re definitely drunk.”

    “Tipsy,” Keith said.

    “Me too,” Lance snickered.

    He kissed like he laughed. Like he lived.

    What would Keith say, if he could see his seventeen-year-old self now? A boy’s about to drop into your life and make your sky a little bit bluer? Like that would explain the magnitude of Lance’s effect on his life, explain the way Lance opened up the whole world and made everything seem possible.

    “I’m feeling really sappy,” he whispered against Lance’s cheek.

    “You’re always really sappy.”

    “I’m not. I’m tough and scary.”

    “Oh, yeah. Super scary.”

    “I am,” Keith insisted.

    “Let’s finish the wine,” Lance decided.

    They did, easily.

    And then, just as easily, Lance set their glasses next to the empty bottle and he turned his back on the movie and he slid his fingers into Keith’s hair and he swallowed the way Keith sighed and sagged against their couch.

    “I’m going to kiss you,” Lance said. “Every day. For the rest of our lives, I’m going to kiss you.”

    “You’re drunk,” Keith replied while something in his chest fluttered to life and began to sing, and it was singing of the way Lance tasted and the way Lance whispered his name and the way Lance breathed when he fell asleep with his face smushed into the pillows on their bed and with the wind making the curtains in their bedroom dance—

    “You hear me? I promise, Keith.”

    “I’m going to hold you to that.”

    “Good.”

    Lance tasted like wine, and like rain when it visited the prairies in the middle of summer and brought thunder and lightning and the threat of danger with it. Lance tasted like wine, and like the crisp feeling of their sheets after they changed them and after the smell of their laundry detergent had started to fade from their bedroom. Lance tasted like wine, and like the spin of Keith’s own thoughts when Lance was close enough and he himself felt free enough just to love, love, love him.

    They popped apart.

    _Pop_.

    And Lance threw back his head and laughed while someone yelled obscenities on their TV.

    “What a mess,” Lance said, and he scrambled or stumbled back and he scooped up the glasses.

    Keith, dazed, watched him teeter on his feet and dragged his fingers in the air like he could pulled Lance back to him just by willing it, just by thinking it.

    “Come on,” Lance said, tucking the empty bottle under his arm. “Let’s go be sappy in the bed.”

    “I’m wine drunk,” Keith replied.

    “Me too.”

    “You lush.”

    Lance rolled his eyes and when Keith blinked he was gone, but he could hear Lance setting the glasses in the sink and he could hear the thunk of the heavy bottle on the counter. He imagined it was by the coffee maker, with the label pointing outwards so when he got up in the morning it would be the first thing he’d see.

    Keith got to his feet. He wobbled. He turned off the tv and started to fold one of the scattered blankets but gave up partway through.

    He found Lance in the hallway, stepping out of the kitchen after flicking off the lights and they smiled at each other in the dark.

    “I’m going to snuggle the hell out of you,” Lance said, and pulled Keith by his shirt down the hall and to their little bedroom.

    They didn’t bother closing the door. Keith pulled off his shirt and then gave up on getting undressed, too, and he wormed his way to the front of the bed and sighed against the pillows.

    Lance managed a little more. He was always better with wine. He crawled into the bed in his favourite pair of sleep pants and Keith didn’t need the lights to know which pants they were.

    “Are you going to throw up?” Lance said, shuffling closer and tossing an arm over Keith.

    Keith snorted. “No.”

    They laughed, their noses knocking. Keith thought he heard Red squeaking as she ran on her wheel. He thought he heard a dog barking, or rain clouds forming. He thought they should open the window but he also thought that they should wrap themselves around each other and become a single, conglomerate blob, comfortable and loving and warm.

    Lance rubbed in ragged, idle swipes at his back.

    “I love you,” he sighed.

    “You make the stars shine,” Keith whispered. “You make the moon glow. You make the ocean blue.”

    “Stop that.”

    “You make my heart beat.”

    “Keith,” Lance said, but he didn’t sound afraid or overwhelmed, he sounded warm and earnest.

    “Do it again.”

    “Do what again?”

    “My name—”

    “Oh,” Lance breathed. And then: “Keith.”

    It took two tries but Keith found his lips and he took the sound of his own name on Lance’s lips and in Lance’s voice and he buried it, deep inside his heart and deeper inside his soul. He fell asleep to Lance whispering his name, again and again, and Lance peppering his lips and his cheeks with warm, wet kisses, and Lance’s fingers dragging warmly against his back.

    And he woke up in the morning with something of a headache, but it was minor compared to the warmth and soothing touch of Lance’s breath against his collarbones and his name whispered, again, in a dream and falling from Lance’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the wine
> 
> it’s a real wine i like it a lot lmao


End file.
